


Ti Bon Ange

by akamine_chan



Series: Merci Pour Le Venin [2]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Community: bandom_meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 14:12:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1713500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's cheating to cast a love spell on yourself, isn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ti Bon Ange

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlpearl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlpearl/gifts).



> Written for girlpearl's prompt of _werewolf pretend dating_ which my brain turned into _pretend werewolf dating_. This takes place in a 'verse that I have an unposted story for, and this is only half of Pete and Patrick's story.
> 
> To my beloved girlpearl. I <3 you so very, very much. Hope this suits.
> 
> Pete is practicing Louisiana Voodoo, which relies much more heavily on the use of gris-gris and Voodoo dolls, sympathetic magic. The title translates to _little good angel_ , which is the part of the soul that Voodoo says contains the individual qualities of a person.

"I'm tired of being alone," Pete said after he ushered the last client of the evening out the door. Once the gentleman was gone, Pete stretched his arms toward the ceiling, groaning at how good it felt to unkink the muscles in his back.

"Okay," Joe said, tucking the client's fee and very generous tip into the lockbox, renewing the protective wards around it.

Pete went around and snuffed out the candles that he liked to use for atmosphere; he felt strongly about making everything an _experience_ for the clients. He carefully shut the double doors that led into the consultation room. "It sucks."

Joe sighed and stowed the lockbox in the secret safe behind the portrait of Marie Laveau. "You are ridiculous. You're a professional matchmaker. Make your ownself a match! Find your soulmate and live happily ever after."

Pete hummed thoughtfully. "Isn't that kinda like cheating?"

Joe put on his cloak and rolled his eyes. "Do what you want. I'm going home. To my beautiful wife and kids. Who love me very much."

"Fuck off," Pete said absently, fingers riffling through a box of leftover spell components. "No reason to rub it in."

" _Goodnight_ , Pete."

"Goodnight," he replied, locking the door of _Ti Bon Ange_ behind Joe. He climbed the stairs to his personal quarters and poured himself a drink, sprawling out on the couch and letting himself relax. Matchmaking wasn't a particularly difficult skill, but after a day of reading auras and expending power to find matches, Pete was tired.

He loved his job, though. It'd taken him years of hard work to build the reputation he had, which allowed him to charge extravagant fees for his services. For those less well off, Pete had a sliding scale calibrated according to their ability to pay. Even the poor had the right to find happiness and true love.

"Fuck," he sighed. He just wanted someone to share his life with.

* * *

He'd fallen asleep on the couch, the empty glass tumbler resting on his stomach. The morning sun shone directly in his eyes and woke him up; he'd forgotten to draw the curtains closed again. He wasn't hung over, he'd only had a few drinks, but he wasn't exactly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, either. It was Sunday, and _Ti Bon Ange_ was closed, and Pete congratulated himself on his brilliant foresight and planning.

He stumbled into his bedroom and pulled off his clothes, crawling under the covers in his boxers and undershirt. Pete tried not to notice how empty his bed felt. He sighed and let himself drift back to sleep for a few more hours.

* * *

Pete dreamed of a beautiful young man, strawberry blond with bright green eyes, and a voice like an angel. They kissed in Pete's dream, and it felt like coming home. When Pete woke up alone, the disappointment was crushing.

"Fuck it," Pete muttered, shoving his feet into his fuzzy slippers and heading downstairs to his lab. He gathered the components he needed, the traditional dried rose petals, a bit of powdered nacre, a dash of turtle's tears and three pomegranate seeds. He mixed the ingredients together, added a few curly hairs from his own head to the paste and smeared it down the front of a crudely made rag doll. 

_Madame_ had despaired of Pete's lack of skill at fashioning his dolls, but his stitches held and the magic was always strong. The doll's black button eyes flashed as he carefully wrote _Peter Lewis Wentz III_ on a scrap of paper and pinned it to the doll's chest. He brought the doll close to his lips and whispered the words of the spell in its ear, feeling the power flow through his veins. "Amen," he said, and he felt the _click_ of the spell taking hold.

Pete laid the doll on a sheet of cyanotype paper and stuck it in a draft-free corner of his laboratory. In a day or so, if Pete's luck held, there'd be an image of his soulmate etched into the paper. The trick was going to be to keep from peeking at the cyanotype while it was developing. 

He sighed gustily and went back upstairs to shower and get dressed. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

_Ti Bon Ange_ was closed from 1 P.M. to 3 P.M. every day, ostensibly for afternoon prayers, but truthfully, Pete just liked to nap through the heat of the day. 

Today, though, Pete jittered through his morning appointments. He snapped at Joe twice and then Joe grabbed him in a headlock and gave Pete noogies until he cried uncle and apologized.

"What in Hades has you so wound up, anyway?" Joe asked, helping Pete put the couch back to rights. "And if you say 'nothing' I will call you a liar." His hair, normally curly and wild, stuck up worse than usual after their impromptu wrestling match.

Pete shut his mouth for a long moment. "I cast a spell."

Joe tilted his head. "Yeah, that's your job. It says so on the sign. ' _Ti Bon Ange_ , Pete Wentz, Practitioner of the Secret Art of Voodoo, Proprietor and Matchmaker, Custom Spells and Hexes.'"

Pete couldn't help rolling his eyes. " _The_ spell."

"Holy fuck, really?" Joe's mouth dropped open. "I didn't think you'd ever do it."

"Me, neither," Pete muttered.

"So, who is your match?"

Shrugging, Pete fluffed a couch cushion. "Haven't looked yet."

"Yeah, no, we're not playing that game." Joe grabbed Pete's elbow and pulled him toward the laboratory. "Let's see who your true love is so you can stop moping around like a lovesick chimaera."

Pete tried to dig his feet in, but Joe was bigger and stronger, and apparently more determined. He shoved Pete toward the cyanotype and crossed his arms over his chest. 

Carefully, Pete moved the doll off the cyanotype, eyes caught by the image etched in blue, the young man from Pete's dream, smiling shyly. He was beautiful, and Pete couldn't look away.

Joe peered over his shoulder. "Oh, fucking hell."

"What?" 

Joe indicated the cyanotype with his chin. "That's Patrick Stump." His tone made it clear that it was a name that Pete was supposed to be familiar with. When Pete just looked confused, Joe sighed. "Patrick Stump, King of the Werewolves."

Something inside of Pete twinged, like a muscle being stretched past its limits. "Oh."

"Yeah, fucking 'oh,'" Joe said, pulling Pete in for a hug.

* * *

"Well, we're destined to be together, so I don't think him being a Werewolf is that big of a deal."

Joe was on a ladder, changing the candles on the chandelier that hung in the consultation room. "Oh?" He held out his hand and Pete handed him the feather duster. "So you don't think that the Chicago Pack's staunch avowal to not date humans isn't going to put a damper on your hypothetical relationship."

Pete shook his head. "Nope. Love triumphs over everything." He handed Joe a new candle and took a stub in return. "Plus, Max promised to make an elixir that will make me smell _just_ like a Werewolf. I'll dazzle Patrick with my earnest wit and charm and he won't be able to resist."

"Uh-huh," Joe mumbled. "Nothing good will come of this."

Pete waved him off airily. "It'll be fine."

"Uh-huh." 

"Totally."

* * *

It cost Pete a pretty penny, Max's elixir. The components were difficult to obtain, and Pete found himself owing favors to several traders who managed to track down the more obscure ingredients. Additionally, the oily liquid reeked, an absolutely rank combination of skunk and rotting fruit that drove Joe from _Ti Bon Ange_ fairly quickly.

Pete shrugged. He'd do a lot for true love. 

Joe had wrangled a ticket for Pete to get into the 75th Annual Unicorn Ball, where coincidentally Patrick Stump was the Guest of Honor. And not only that, but Pete had arranged to be _introduced_ to the man himself.

Pete pretended that the churning in his stomach wasn't nerves.

He dressed carefully, his best suit jacket over his favorite ratty band tee, some truly obnoxious striped slacks and a skinny tie. He debated between his stompy boots and his Chucks, and in the end he decided to stay classy with the Chucks.

The carriage dropped him off at the Palace, fashionably late, as usual. Pete waved his invitation at the doormen and barely let them announce him before he sailed into the crowd. There were a lot of people at the Ball, and Pete knew a good portion of them, so it wasn't hard to mingle and keep himself from searching for Patrick.

Occasionally, someone got a whiff of Max's elixir and backed away from him hastily; Pete tried to not take it personally.

He finally ran into Travie, who had an in with Patrick and had volunteered (with a liberal offering of the best quality _kánnabis_ that Pete could get his hands on) to introduce Pete to him.

"Hey, bruv, you havin' a good time?" Travie asked, hugging Pete hard and lifting him off his feet. "Great party, yeah?"

Pete bounced a little once he was back on his feet. "Yeah, it's been interesting." He bit his lip to keep from asking Travie to present him to Patrick now now _now_. "You enjoying yourself?"

Travie winked. "Oh, yes, little man. So many beautiful people here tonight. Not planning on going home empty handed."

Pete laughed, but it sounded fake, forced. He was starting to feel twitchy and nervous, and he was sure that everyone could see how close he was to tweaking out of his skin.

Travie slung his arm around Pete's shoulders and started to guide them toward the edge of the ballroom where a group of people were standing, champagne glasses held delicately between their fingers. They were chatting among themselves and Pete could hear snatches of conversation about the Dragon-Governor's recent proclamation, the controversy over raising the tax on orcish ale, on the manticore sighting on Lake Shore Drive.

Werewolves. Pete could feel their power, like static electricity, and it raised every hair on his body.

"Patrick," Travie called out, pulling Pete along as they approached the center of the Werewolf pack. "Patrick, I have someone I want you to meet."

Patrick looked him over, eyes curious but distant, and Pete felt the entire universe shrink down to this one moment. He couldn't breathe, couldn't look away, because this was his fate.

"Patrick, this is my bro Pete Wentz. Pete, Patrick." 

Travie's voice was distant and buzzy, and Pete shook his head a little to clear it. Patrick stepped closer, hand extended, and for a brief moment, he froze, nostrils flaring as he caught Pete's scent.

Pete knew that the expected thing to do was to shake Patrick's hand, make small talk until it was time for Patrick to make his Guest of Honor speech, and leave. But he couldn't. It was like he was possessed, and all he could do was tip his head back and bare his throat to Patrick.

There was a collective gasp of shock, and Pete just closed his eyes and waited, waited for Patrick to accept him as one of the Pack. He could feel a whine building in his throat, ragged and feral, and just as he was sure he couldn't hold it back any longer, he felt Patrick's warm breath against his neck, right where his pulse was beating fast and erratic.

Patrick bit him hard enough to leave a mark before stepping away. "I was unaware that there were unaffiliated Werewolves in Chicago," he said. "We'll have to talk more, later."

Pete nodded, breathless and lost. He held onto _later_ like it was a talisman.

"Goodnight, Pete," Patrick said.

"Goodnight," he echoed, watching Patrick until he was lost in the crowd. He wasn't sure how long he could pull off being a Werewolf, but he just needed enough time for Patrick to realize they were meant to be together.

-fin-


End file.
